


Newsies Meet Cutes

by SnarkyBubble



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Wrestling, Dishwashing, M/M, meet cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBubble/pseuds/SnarkyBubble
Summary: Exploring some AU meet cutes of our favorite newsies ships.





	1. The Wrestler

Never Fear, Brooklyn is Here

“What are you hanging around here for?” Race said, looking down at the famous Brooklyn High School wrestler, Spot Conlon, who Race only knew by reputation. Spot was at a table of books, notes, and crumpled papers. “The match starts in 20 minutes, and it's you and me first.”

“If I don't get this done,” Spot gestured across the table, “I won't be wrestling. So it's your lucky day, kid.”

“My lucky day?” Race scoffed. “What's that supposed to mean?” Being paired against Spot already made it his lucky day. The Brooklyn wrestler was a legend and Race was determined to be the first Manhattan High player to beat him.

“Well, look at you,” Spot said, gesturing at Race’s wiry build. “No offense, but I would've beat you. Now at least you won't have a loss on your record.”

Race frowned and pulled a chair--backward--up to the table, sitting across the table from Spot. “Oh there's no way I'm taking a win because of a forfeit. I'm going to win against you because of my skill. I'm Race, by the way.” He glanced at the mess in front of Spot. Grabbing the worksheet Spot was working on, Race read it over, then said, “Really? Physics?”

Spot shrugged his big shoulders. “It ain't my thing.”

“It's everyone's thing. What does Newton say?”

Spot screwed up his face in thought. “Never Fear, Brooklyn is here?”

Race gave him a blank face. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Spot shrugged a little, hiding a grin.

Race shook his head. “No, no. Objects at rest will remain at rest, and objects in motion will remain in motion at the same velocity, unless the object is acted on by an external force.”

Spot groaned. “What??”

“Ok, imagine that you've got a slingshot, right?”

“Alright.”

“You shoot a marble and what happens?”

“It hits you square in your geeky forehead.”

Race stood up, straightening his wrestling uniform as he did. “I don't know why I'm wasting my time. Go ahead and forfeit,” he said. But before he took two steps away, a warm hand grasped his bicep.

“Sorry.” Spot tightened his hold, pulling Race back toward the table. “Hey, there's more to you than I realized,” Spot said in a quieter voice. His hand still clutching his arm, Race wasn't sure if he was referring to his knowledge of physics or --Spot’s hand gently squeezed Race’s arm then stroked it as he let go-- yeah, Spot was definitely referring to Race’s physique.

Race sat down, definitely not blushing. He powered through, ignoring that feeling. “You shoot a marble and it keeps going until it hits something--something besides my forehead.” A little smile leaked from his mouth.

Spot was nodding slowly, writing a few things down. “Okay, but what if nothing's there?” He looked up with a questioning expression, meeting Race’s gaze. “The marble won't keep flying forever.”

“You're right, it won't. Because there is a force that will stop it, at least here on earth.”

“Let me guess,” Spot said. “The force of your eyes, blue and sort of mind-numbing...”

“No, you idiot. Gravity.” And Race whacked Spot across the shoulder, anything to quiet that burning feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Spot stood up, raising a fist slightly. “I ain't an idiot!”

Race stood up across from him, taller but not more imposing by any means. “Well, then stop with all the jokes! First, never fear, Brooklyn’s here, then that bit about my eyes, but we've got twelve minutes until the match, and it'll take 5 minutes to get over there, so at this rate, we’ll both wind up forfeit-”

Race would've continued his rant, but the lips of his adversary made it impossible. Race melted into the kiss almost immediately, Spot’s strong hand running through the blond hair that curled at Race’s neck and pulling him even closer.

Then almost as soon as Spot had grabbed him, Spot released him, with an excited look in his eyes. “Oh! Objects at rest will remain at rest, and objects in motion will remain in motion at the same velocity, unless the object is acted on by an external force,” Spot rattled off, seemingly unfazed. “So your mouth was going about a mile a minute, and the external force of my mouth stopped it. Right?”

Race swallowed a whimper and sat back down. “You could say that.” So when he said that bit about his eyes… he actually meant it? Maybe?

Spot nodded, then went back to writing on his worksheet. “Okay. Done.” He stood up with a grin. “You hear that? Done!”

Race jumped up too, returning Spot’s grin. “Then let's go!” If that was what it was like kissing Spot, he couldn't wait to see what it was like to wrestle him.

 


	2. The Dishwasher

Spot was elbow-deep in the sudsy water, all his attention focusing on finding that last fork that he knew was down there. The kitchen of Tibby's diner was empty, save Spot, and the only noise was the sloshing of water as he attempted to find that missing fork. The only other Tibby's employee had been out in the dining room cleaning tables and straightening chairs, but it had been a few minutes since he had last heard any noise out there, which was fine with Spot.

After the 8 hours of bussing tables, washing and drying dishes, ironing linen, and the other craptastic manual work that his job entailed, not to mention his attempts at training that hot--where'd that come from? Spot meant weird--new kid, Spot was relieved to be alone and still.

Ah, there was the fork. He scrubbed it fiercely, dried it off, and set it in the silverware rack with a breath of relief. Spot was done. He rested his elbows on the sink, staring into the murky, soapy water and let his mind wander. It didn't bother him that Tibby put him in charge of training the new guys. Spot was excellent at multitasking and, if he was honest with himself, loved showing off all he knew about keeping the deli restaurant clean and organized. But today's new guy--a kid, really--was something else.

For one thing, this new kid seemed to take NOTHING seriously. He was so full of jokes and quips, not to mention pointless BETS, Spot just felt his head spinning from trying to process it all. This was a relatively nice establishment. There were cloth napkins for god's sake. So why did this new kid think it was okay to take said cloth napkin, wear it on his head, and imitate a friend's Jewish grandmother? And then to suggest 3 to 1 odds that the next customer would call him ma'am instead of sir if he continued to wear the napkin on his head? Ridiculous.

The second strike against him was his clumsiness. Spot himself was pretty much the picture of grace. He could balance more dirty plates than anyone he'd ever known, and had never once tripped or bumped into anything while on the job. This new kid, on the other hand... As if the new kid wanted to prove Spot's inner monologue, Spot heard a crash in the dining room. He felt a shudder go through his shoulders. There went all the silverware for tomorrow's breakfast setup. Well, Spot wasn't going to wash any of that. Leave it to the new kid.

And finally the third strike. For being short, that new kid was fit. Spot could see the way his shoulders and upper arms filled out the white button-up that all of Tibby's workers wore. And the way the apron hugged his narrow waist and tied right above his firm-- well. THAT was the third strike against him, if Spot was going to be honest. Which he always was. He couldn't stand his inferiors being hotter than him.

Enough daydreaming. Spot shook his head to clear his mind and rolled up the sleeve of his own white button-up. He reached down into the sink to pull up the drain plug, but before he had grasped it--

"GRRWAAAAAARGGGGH!"

The guttural, wild sound behind Spot caused him to jump in a moment of sheer panic. Spot slipped forward, knocking his head into the faucet and just about drenching the whole upper half of his body in the sink of dirty water. He reached for the first thing his hand grasped--a sopping wet white dish towel--and hurled it at the noise behind him.

At the Chewbacca behind him.

At the now soaking wet new kid behind him, who was grinning as he removed his noise-making Chewbacca mask.

"Nice. We look like a couple of wet t-shirt contest contenders," he quipped with that grin that had tormented Spot all day. "Odds are in your favor for taking the prize, though," he adding glancing up and down at Spot with a sly look. He took a step toward Spot, for what purpose Spot would never know, because the new kid's foot slipped in the water on the floor. He slid forward, grabbed ahold of Spot around both of his biceps to try to steady himself, and wound up bringing both of them down to the ground, Spot on the bottom.

"How cozy! What were the odds of THIS happening?" Oh that voice grated on Spot's nerves!

"Judging by your track record, high. Very high, new kid," Spot said with a steely tone that matched his eyes, gingerly pushing at the new kid to get off of him, and trying not to notice how the wet shirt fell open at the brunet's chest, or how warm his skin felt under Spot's hands.

"I'm Race, by the way. You don't have to call me new kid all day." Race hopped up and reached out a hand to Spot, who grasped his hand and felt himself lifted with ease, pulled in a little closer than Spot expected. "It's been a pleasure, Spot, even if you were clumsy enough to get us both wet and knock us both down."

"Oh, yeah? You calling ME clumsy?" Spot pulled away his hand in a huff. "Who's the one who--" He stopped his verbal rampage, noticing that Race was still grinning. "Oh, I see. Another one of your jokes." He narrowed his eyes. "Well, I've got a joke for you. All that silverware you spilled out there in the dining room? That's on YOU to wash. Tonight. Alone."

Spot shoved his long, dirty blond hair off of his forehead. He started to walk away, unbuttoning his soaking wet shirt, when Race said, "Jokes are supposed to be funny. When does that get funny?"

Spot turned around with a smirk that only Spot could give. "Oh. Right. Well, it gets funny when you realize that since it's your mistake, you won't be paid for it." He turned away as Race's grin melted away, waving a little wave goodbye for dramatic's sake. "Have a lovely night." And if Spot heard a muttered curse behind his back, he didn't let on.

Strangely, he was looking forward to tomorrow's shift.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love prompts!


End file.
